Never in the Grave
by Bustahead
Summary: When Sparda returns from the Underworld after being thought to have died, he finds nothing is as what he expected. Now he's out to repay a blood debt...
1. Default Chapter

**Never in the Grave**

_There was little you could have done…you were thought to have died when you did not return. Now a hundred years have passed, and no one is left for you. Without them, you always said that you would be worthless. You were locked away, sealed, imprisoned. You tried so hard to get out…and look what greets you…_

Tombstones. Three tombstones. Eva Sparda. Dante Sparda. And the third...the third...His family. Gone. There was nothing left. Eagerly, the lone figure bent down to try and search to see if there were any notes under the tombstones. There was nothing. None of them had passed on the name of Sparda.

He sighed heavily, his ragged silver hair falling across his silver eyes. He had dressed in all black, to appear inconspicuous, to blend in with the shadows. He had never thought that when he had emerged back into the human world from his long imprisonment that his black attire would turn out to be his mourning clothes.

He sat down heavily, looking down at the offerings left by old friends. Old withered roses lay still before his wife's grave. The wind picked up suddenly, blowing his hair from his eyes like white ribbons, blowing the dead flowers away, scattering the dry petals, like ashes in the wind.

He couldn't understand what this aching pain in his stomach was. He had taken on the form of a human to live in the mortal realm, yet he had never experienced a feeling such as this. A feeling that everything had been taken away from him, a feeling that he would never recover from the wound hidden deep in his chest.

Even as he stared at his family's last resting place, he could not bring himself to believe that they were gone. He was his child, she was his wife. A hundred years had passed, and while Eva, a mortal woman would not have been expected to live, he had anticipated that his son would still be there when he made a return.

Almost as though acting on an instinct, he placed one hand on Dante's tombstone, staring at the harsh grey slab of stone. It seemed unfitting. When he had last seen him, his son had been an angel, a beautiful angel. With silver blue eyes, and the same platinum hair, his five year old son had shown all the delicate and sensitivity of one so innocent, so pure. A grey slab could not represent what Dante was, and had always been in his father's eyes.

Even while he had been locked away in an icy prison, the thought of returning to his child had preserved him and had ensured he had survived. Dante had always shown love towards both of his parents. His other child however…well…that was a different story entirely. He never cried, never demanded a thing, would always regard them even at such a young age with a fair amount of suspicion. His emotions were guarded, he would skulk in the shadows and refused to join in with any family activities.

Sparda remembered the one time when Eva had requested that they go on a picnic. Dante had immediately become excited and practically hopped around his parents in a giddy show of high spirits. Virgil however, had remained aloof and distant.

Even to this day, Sparda remembered that he had never seen a glint of warmth in his son's eyes…

He sighed miserably, wondering whether Virgil was still alive or whether he had perished as the rest of his kin had done. The hand that lay over his deceased son's tombstone suddenly tingled. He pulled his hand away and frowned as the sensation stopped. He blinked down at his hand, and found to his surprise that it was unmarked in any way. Curiously, he replaced his hand on the tombstone.

The sensation returned, travelling up his arm, into his body, down into his very heart. He could clearly hear his son's voice. He instinctively shut his eyes, and could see his son's face.

He had changed, as all things had changed. His hair had grown longer and unruly, his face hard and impassive, all innocence from his eyes had long ago disappeared. In his eyes, Sparda recognised the spirit of a warrior, the spirit that ran through his own veins. In his eyes, Sparda recognised the same ideals of justice that he himself held close to his heart.

'Dante…'

The phantom figure of his son smiled, momentarily cold, but then warming as he recognised his aura.

'Father?'

'…'

'You're…not here. I always thought when I died…I'd see your face again.' Sparda heard the raw pain in his son's dead voice. He was not a part of this world now. He was simply a spirit in a different plane. A spirit with a voice so it seemed.

'…What happened?'

'Murdered. I didn't think I'd go out like that. I always thought I'd go out taking several demons with me.' Sparda kept his hand firmly on the rock, chewing at his lip.

'Who did it?' He asked. Dante's smile suddenly disappeared, his phantom eyes darkening somewhat as he shook his head slowly. 'And how can you talk with me if you're…' Sparda's voice petered out. If he said the word, it would make it real. He couldn't say the word. He wouldn't say the word. He didn't want to believe.

'Dead?' There was a humorous edge to Dante's voice and a small wry smile played across his son's face. 'Come on…you might as well say it. My mother always told me you were one to face up to reality.'

'…But this? This is my greatest fear…' Sparda whispered. Dante shook his head slowly.

'I only had one chance to reach out and talk to someone…My time has ran out.'

'What about Eva?'

'She used her chance to talk with me…now I use my chance to talk with you.'

'I'm glad then…that it was me.'

'…Good bye, Father.'

'Dante…'

There was no answering voice. Dante had left him and had finally gone to rest in the peace that he had deserved as a demon hunter.


	2. Chapter 2

**_It's short, I know. But recently some sad things have happened and it's knocked me well off balance, in a way I have never been knocked off before. I hope you give me the support, but if not, that's okay. I just want you all to enjoy my paltry offering._**

**Chapter 2**

Sparda laid his head against his son's tombstone in silence, something like a lump formed in his throat. Was this what it meant to feel "choked up"? As though the grief would never pass, as though he would always be carrying this heavy unbearable weight with him. He found it hard to imagine that he had lost so much in what seemed like a short amount of time.

His breath started hitching, and Sparda was shocked into raising his head from the cold unresponsive stone. He put a hand to his chest, still heaving alarmingly. What was this? And…why did he feel as though he couldn't think properly. Now he couldn't see, his vision had become blurred. All at once, he felt something wet trickling down his cheek and he understood.

So this was what it meant to cry…so this was what it felt like.

He laughed, close to hysteria. What the hell did _this_ mean? He had never cried before, he had never undergone such emotions before. This was sadness, this was true pain. These trickling rivulets down his face where what humans calls tears. He was a devil though, he couldn't cry. Yet here he was.

Dante would have been proud. He'd always said that… "Devils Never Cry". He'd heard so much while he was a prisoner in the Underworld. Just because his body was trapped in a cold icy prison, it didn't mean that his hearing was any less affected, and it didn't mean that the demons around him, and the guards would stop gossiping. In the lonely hours of guard duty, there was little else to do, and Sparda had been able to keep informed, though not nearly enough to his liking. Still, he was eager to listen to anything that the guards let slip, whether fact or the mere stipulations of rumour.

Though he hadn't heard anything about Dante's death. Neither had the demons. How the hell was that possible? They would have thrown a celebration of sorts surely, that the demon hunter who had been labelled as a blood-traitor was finally dead and gone? But there was no party, there was no mention of a thing.

Sparda felt suddenly lost and at odds with himself. Now that he had escaped and was back in the human realm, what was left for him now? What should he do? Where should he go? He had nothing left. His family, they were gone. His eyes caught sight yet again of the words scratched into the stone and the agony intensified, built up in him like a storm. He howled out his misery, which eventually died down to a bitter sobbing laugh as his eyes fell upon the wounds etched upon the last tombstone.

_In loving memory of Sparda, a brave warrior, a loving husband and a doting father._

The irony of his life touched him in a way it never had before, and slowly, he stood, his eyes fixed on the gravestone that had been wrongly erected. And slowly, he walked away, determined to find out what had happened, determined to avenge the murder of his son.

And as he walked, the petals from the roses he had left trailed in his wake, a sad reminder that the legendary dark knight Sparda, had been and had gone, with no one to receive him.


	3. Chapter 3

**_This chapter is dedicated to a very special friend of mine, one who has been very supportive of me as of late. It's her birthday on the 1st of January, so this is for her. _**

_**I wish you a very Happy Birthday, and a very Happy New Year! You know who you are! (grins)**_

_**As for the rest of you, thank you so much for the support you have shown me throughout the writing of this fic. It is always well appreciated. Without you guys there really wouldn't be me. **_

_**I wish you all a very very Happy New Year. I wish that all your wishes come true, and I wish that you all achieve that which you want.**_

_**And remember, those New Years Resolutions are MEANT to be broken. (wink)**_

**Chapter 3**

_Snow continued to fall, making it appear to all as though the snow was falling. High up on the mountains, a lone figure stood, allowing the harsh cold winds to caress his sculpted face. The winds howled about him as though crying out in misery and reflecting his deepest innermost thoughts._

_I wish I had been able to explain to you how much I loved you…he thought. I wish you were here with me…perhaps if I were normal I would be at home right now, instead of stuck in the cold mountains…_

_Yet, despite his hatred for his current situation, the man couldn't help but feel a strange sense of calm being amidst so much beauty. Snow fell all around him, intertwining with his hair before quickly melting. He stared upon each flake before his sad sombre mindset returned to hit him at full force. _

_How brief, and how transient their existences were. How almost meaningless. Yet he felt oddly drawn towards them because of it. It was that quality that had drawn him towards the human race, that had made him pity them so much, had made him feel almost a strange sense of responsibility. _

_Then came the day when he had met her. Eva. His one, his only. His meaning for life. He had been suddenly filled with a bizarre sense of purpose, the likes of which he had never experienced before, not even when he was under Mundus' rule. Now he suddenly knew what it meant to really be alive. _

_Yet here he was, investigating the threat of a demon invasion on Christmas Eve when all he really wanted to do was stay by his wife. Yes, he had married her. He had laughed mentally all the way up the aisle, unsure as to why exactly he had agreed to this silly human custom. But it had been something that she had really wanted, had really dreamed about. Whenever anyone had mentioned the word marriage to her, a sudden light would appear in her eyes, would make her whole face look even more alive and animated than it usually did._

But now she was dead. Dead and gone. His children were also dead. Dead and gone. The leaves on the trees…Dead and gone. Everything. Dead and gone. Sparda shook his head, tears still trickling out of his eyes as he walked, his hair becoming plastered to his face as he crunched onwards.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, he had become aware that it had begun to snow. He stopped at that point and looked up into the sky, watching the snowflakes as they swirled and drifted downwards, so very clear as he stood in the pool of lamplight, clinging to his black coat, to his hair, to everything it could touch.

Was he also meant to exist in such a way?

Like a snowflake, would he also have to drift meaninglessly? Going wherever the wind would take him? Drifting from existence to existence, trying to cling to what threads he had left of his family? The threads were his memories, but what would he do if he were to somehow lose his memory?

He would die. The overwhelming sensation in his chest and stomach would remain, and he would be able to do nothing to alleviate the pain. He would die because of it.

He shook his head at that point, trying to force his mind away from such morbid thoughts. This was not right, this was not like him. What were Eva and Dante thinking of him right now? Were they watching him at this very moment? Sparda knew that such things were more than possible, after all, hadn't he seen how Mundus had been able to watch the human realm from the deepest darkest pits of hell? Surely the same would be possible in heaven, right?

Right…

Dante wouldn't have gone to hell, would he? Eva surely wouldn't. She was pure, innocent. She was everything that he wasn't, and it was one of the reasons why he had admired her so much. She was reminder of what he could never be, yet she always gave him hope that one day he could be like her. She was like his other half. She completed him in a way that no other had been able to.

He sighed heavily, and closed his ice blue eyes, letting the wind blow through his hair, so then it blew back against his face in ragged ribbons of silver. Standing in the lamplight would not do him any good. It would not achieve anything. Though what was there left to achieve?

Nothing.

He really did mean it when he felt that his entire world was over, and that it would never be the same, that he had no reason to live. He knew it to be the truth, not the falsehood that other people usually told themselves when they couldn't find something as trivial as love.

It was better not to fall in love rather than fall into the snare. It saved a lot of pain. If he had never met Eva then he wouldn't be feeling this torture right now.

But if he had never met Eva then he would never have found such a great wealth of happiness. It was so confusing, these myriads of feelings that he was experiencing. His feet seemed to be carrying him in a direction that they already seemed to know. He was not even fully aware of what he was doing.

Was this what humans meant when they talked about going into shock? He had always thought that shock simply meant when the body was struggling to exist on too little blood, and was failing miserably. He had never felt that shock would refer to this kind of deep pain, this deep understanding that his life had been stolen away from him, leaving behind only an empty shell.

His feet stopped moving, and for a second all that Sparda could hear was the sound of the wailing winds blowing across the night sky. He looked up slowly, taking in the cracks on the lightly dusted pavement. Those were unfamiliar. Where had he brought himself? His eyes travelled up, past the pavement so then he was staring straight ahead. He recognised the black iron-wrought gate instantly, and it caused a sudden jolt in his stomach, so violent that he thought that he was going to be sick.

He swallowed hard before reaching out to touch the gate. Memories tingled through his fingertip to his heart, flooding his mind.

_They were both laughing as they played with the new pet that he had brought them. She looked disapproving but then she smiled and shook her head. She told him that he spoiled them more than was good. He responded by saying that he would do anything for them. She had hugged him and they watched them as they ran about, trying to train the puppy, laughing when it suddenly flopped on the younger's feet, too tired out from the playing._

He was crying again. He was still crying as he pushed open the gate, hearing it creak the way it always had done. He remembered how he had promised Eva that he would get around to fixing it and oiling it one day. That day had never really come and now it was far too late.

The house was utterly still and silent. Sparda knew that he should have turned back. He was aware that the house might not be his anymore, that someone else might have already moved in with their family. The thought was sickening, to think that someone else was living in the house that had been his family's, that had been meant for his family and his alone.

But there was no sound, and as he walked closer and closer towards the front door, no one came out to try and stop him. Sparda continued to walk towards the door, against his better judgement, his eyes falling upon the long dead flowers that had wilted away under the onset of winter.

He placed his palm on the door and pushed.

It swung open.

And the sight that met his eyes was reflected in the tears as they rolled down his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Everything was entirely unchanged and no one had set foot in the building since. He stared at the dust covered floor for a while before his attention was caught by something else. Bloodstains. He gasped and slowly inched towards them, kneeling down on the floor beside them. He tentatively placed the palm of his hand over the bloodstain and swallowed hard as images flooded his mind.

_Eva, his Eva. Screaming and crying as she was ripped mercilessly to shreds. Vergil racing to try and save her, to try and stop her but being pushed back, torn and bloody. Dante, hiding under the table, his eyes filled with tears, wondering what these monsters were, wondering why they had burst in upon them, even as his mother's blood splashed across his face and clothes. _

_The demons, pleased with their cruel work fled, and the twins had immediately run to each other and had hugged each other, too shocked and dazed to do much else but cry. Dante ran towards his mother's body, only to be held back by Vergil who shook his head, quickly regaining his composure, ever the adult. Then, even as Sparda watched, rage and hatred filled his eyes. _

_'We could have stopped them!'_

_'B-but they were too strong!'_

_'We could have stopped them but you hid! Dad always said that we had to be strong and be brave but you hid like a coward! We could have stopped them but you didn't help me! If we had both fought, they wouldn't have been too strong!' Vergil screamed, pushing his brother away from him. His chest heaved with every ragged sob he took and Dante could do nothing but stare at him, a wounded look on his face, as well as a new terror, terror of his elder twin. _

_'B-but I…I…'_

_'You were scared. You weren't brave at all like how Dad said we should have been!' Hurt bruised Dante's features._

_'Even if we had fought, they would still have beaten us…'_

_'How do you know?'_

_'Because Dad said so!' There was a pause before Dante started crying harder than ever. 'Dad could have stopped them. Dad would have killed them easy…'_

_'…' Vergil shook his head in disgust, his nose wrinkling. 'We could have stopped them too.'_

_'NO WE COULDN'T!' Dante screamed. 'WE COULDN'T. BECAUSE WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH THOSE THINGS!' He was shaking now, his entire body trembling with words that had remained unsaid. _

_'You should have been braver,' Vergil said again. Dante stared at him, his face red with fury._

_'Dad said that, didn't he?' Vergil made no answer. 'Didn't he?'_

_'Yeah…'_

_'So where the hell was he then? Why didn't he come? He always said he'd keep us safe, that he wouldn't ever let anything hurt us! But where was he? He didn't come! He didn't come and save us! He didn't do anything! HE LET MOM DIE!' The door creaked open at that point, to reveal a frightened woman. Her eyes fell upon Eva's body and widened before turning to take in the two sobbing boys. She immediately rang the police and told them there had been a murder, before calling social services. _

_Before long, a whole host of strange people had entered their home, one of them a woman, who led the kids away into a black car. She ushered them into the back of the car before sitting in the passenger's side, motioning for the driver to pull away from the house of tragedies. The two boys looked towards each other, rage reflecting in each other's eyes._

_'I'll never forgive you, Dante,' Vergil hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I will never forgive you for as long as I live.' Dante's face hardened, the innocence gone from his eyes, to be replaced by a coldness that had never been there before. 'You're not worthy enough to be a son of Sparda.'_

_'I'll make you eat those words,' Dante growled in reply, too low for the woman at the front of the car to hear. 'I'll make you regret you ever said that to me. I will make you pay.'_

Sparda slowly drew his hand away and licked at dry lips, feeling as though another part of him had died inside. If he concentrated hard, he could still smell the scent of the two boys. It broke his heart to think that Dante had hated him with a fierce passion the likes of which he had never seen before.

Well, he supposed he deserved it. He had been careless, he had left Eva and the children, even if it was unintentional. He should have taken more care, yet he had failed them all miserably, and because of his folly, Eva was dead, and so was Dante. He had started to cry again, though he wasn't sure when it was that the tears had begun to fall.

The tears had to stop. He had to focus. He had to find a way. As he stared down at the blood-stain, he was suddenly filled with a new, blinding resolve.

'I promise to you,' he whispered, his voice hoarse from grief. 'I promise to you that I'll find out who did this to you, my son. I promise. And for once, I won't let you down.'


	5. Chapter 5

_This is what happens when I'm not sure exactly of what I'm doing, of what mood I'm in. I like the beginning of the chapter but I think something dies at the end of it, it just becomes…I dunno…I just don't like it. _

_Anyway, don't let what my thoughts are bother you!_

_Read, review but most of all, Enjoy!_

**Chapter 5**

Time seemed to stand still for all of a few seconds, as Sparda continued to sit there beside the blood-stain that marred the floor, trying to get his thoughts in order. There was a lot that needed to be organized in his mind. First of all, his family was dead, and he felt that the more he repeated this fact to himself, the quicker he would come to terms with it, the quicker the pain would dim down to something that he was familiar with, to something that he knew he could actually manage.

He slowly rose to his feet and closed his eyes, blinking away the last of his tears. He stared around the dusty room, at the furniture that had been standing there for only God knew how long. It was strange, that no one had come here, that no one had ever tried to seize any of their belongings, even after the house had been vacated. But that wasn't what was important now. He moved out and into the hallway, climbing the stairs, which creaked the way they had always done as they supported his weight.

He took his time going up the stairs, memories playing on his mind, clouding his vision, for a second making everything appear as it had done before he'd been captured and tortured. He could remember the look on Eva's face when Dante had fallen down the stairs, Vergil pushing him over in his clumsy haste to get to the chocolate before his brother scoffed it all. He could remember his children's faces as they walked down the stairs, only to be met with the sight of Christmas decorations welcoming them and leading them to the Christmas tree that Sparda and Eva had spent the night before decorating while the two had been asleep.

One of his sweetest memories, was when Eva had told him that she was pregnant with their third child. The child that never was born.

The memory was not so sweet now. It was heart-breaking, tear-jerking. Except he no longer had any tears to give. His brief moment of experiencing the most human of all emotions was over. Now it was replaced by a cold, calculating rage.

He moved into his sons' bedroom, his eyes drifting over the unmade beds that had collected a vast amount of dust after being undisturbed for so long. It was so odd, it was almost as though he had stepped into the past. A past that was viciously marred by the fact that his children were no longer there, that his wife was no longer there to stand by his side through thick and thin.

He picked up a few toys mindlessly, tidying up the room, acting on autopilot. He paused when he saw a red toy car, made out of metal. He turned it over and over into his hands before pocketing it, wanting to search for something else, something that belonged to Vergil. But he could find nothing, these were all Dante's toys here.

Dissatisfied, he paced into the master bedroom and looked around for what he desired. But the photo frame that was kept on his bedside table was gone, much to his anguish. He cast about desperately, determined to find some sort of keepsake of his deceased wife, but there was nothing.

He returned back to the ground floor, circling the blood-stain again, not knowing where to go, what to do. And then suddenly, almost as if it were a sign of sorts, he caught a scent.

He blinked, sniffing once or twice more, just to make sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. No, it was still there. His son's scent, still so strong and fresh as if it had only been made a few minutes ago.

Following his instincts, as well as his heart, he helplessly followed it, only wondering at where exactly it was going to take him, wondering whether somehow, despite the fact that his son couldn't speak to him from beyond the grave, his spirit was still tied to the earth.

No matter what it was, he had no choice but to trust in it.

So trust he did.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Short short chapters, I know. I'm sorry too. But lately I just can't seem to find the energy to write anything much. I think maybe, after writing for so long on the site, maybe I'm getting a bit OLD as a writer? I don't know. I'm sure it's just a slump and I'm sure that eventually I'm going to break out of it.**_

_**But still…it's beginning to give me cause for concern.**_

_**Bah anyway, enough of my random thoughts, go ahead and read!**_

**Chapter 6**

The snow had continued to fall outside, during the time Sparda had spent indoors, watching the sad fate of his wife with horrified eyes, the images tattooed into his mind now for all eternity. There was nothing left for him to do here, he knew, he had tried to collect what he could but there had been more or less nothing left. He reached into his pocket and stared down at the small car, his calloused fingers tracing over the dents that it had received over time.

And then he caught the scent again, urging him to keep moving, forcing him to step away from their old house, from everything that he had known while on this plane.

Eva had been a brilliant teacher, Eva had tried so hard to make him feel as human as he could. She had never once looked upon him with fear, and the girl that he had met when he had first realized exactly how frail and delicate her race was hadn't either.

He paused at the iron gate once again and sighed, staring back at the house, remembering, always remembering.

The first time he had truly opened his eyes to the place around him, the girl had been little more than an infant. She had been about three years old. He himself had been young for a demon also, and he still was, even to this day, despite the way he talked, despite the way he looked. He smiled sadly to himself as he remembered how the child had stared up at him, separated from her parents briefly when she had wondered off towards a small shallow stream to stare down at the fish that lived within its depths. She had smiled and had happily offered him what she had considered to be a flower, but what had really been a weed in small fingers that he could have crushed so easily had he wanted.

But something in her trusting eyes had stopped him from tearing her to shreds and had truly opened his eyes to the world he preyed upon. Everything was so frail, so delicate. And because of this transience, everything was so much more sacred.

And the demons were, in actual fact, showing how weak they were if they had to resort to hunting these people for food, or for mere pleasure. Beasts. He had been nothing more than a beast.

Perhaps he had fallen in love with the human race out of…pride?

Who knew. Even he wasn't sure what exactly changed in him, nor was he certain why it all changed so suddenly. He had killed many before he had met her, yet she had stopped him and his whole life had been turned upside down. He couldn't expect anyone to understand his thoughts, he couldn't even trust the belief that maybe there were a few fellow demons who felt the same way.

He'd been set upon when Mundus had eventually found out, as was inevitable, yet he had somehow broken free and he had fled, and he had lived, and he had avenged.

But now it was time to take up his sword again.

Again, he found himself in the role of avenger.

The fact that he had later fallen in love with Eva had been an accident, and he had no clue that she had been the same girl and that she would later become his wife. And now he would never know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He was close to its source now, he could feel it. Each step he took brought him closer and the scent, that delicate mix of the demonic and the mortal became stronger, almost overpowering. Yet he continued, his heart swelling inexplicably.

'Dante,' he murmured out loud, tramping on through the snow. 'Dante. What are you trying to tell me? Where are you leading me?' But the skies remained silent save for the dirge, that ceaseless song of the wind. A sharp gust of air blew at him, forcing him to a halt. He growled softly in annoyance, the scent suddenly thinning, dangerously close to being lost altogether. Panic momentarily seized him and he lunged forward, ignoring the bitter cold that lashed at his eyes, blinding him. He let out another low feral snarl before he shut his eyes, sniffing. There it was! It didn't matter if he couldn't see, he still had his other senses and he would follow them faithfully. He still had those. He ploughed onwards, stumbling every now and again without the full help of his sight.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, the wind died down to a whisper before it stilled completely. Sparda dared to open his eyes fully to take in the calm atmosphere, snow falling upon carpets of untainted white. His vision had become sharp once more and it was only now that the moment had passed that did Sparda realize how worried he had been over the sudden lapse in his sight. Still, it was unimportant for now, there were more pressing things to attend to. He had a promise to keep and he was going to stick by it.

He knew simply by how Dante had spoken with him that he had forgiven him for being absent, for not being there when their small family had needed him the most. But he knew also, that he had not made his oath to gain his dead son's approval or his forgiveness. He wanted only to retain the…dignity? Pride? He wasn't even sure what he was hoping to preserve by seeking revenge but somehow, his grief-stricken heart told him that something would be achieved by vengeance and that something within him would ease.

His mind stated otherwise.

He was no fool and if anyone knew about the sorrows of retribution, it was him. He had watched countless beings as they were ripped to shreds by their warped ideal. Revenge, he knew, would always be considered one of the strangest miracles of life, in that it was often born from death or a loss of some kind. Yet it keeps people alive and with a sense of purpose and yet, it ultimately destroys them when they inevitably wake up from its spell.

He continued forwards wearily but came to an abrupt halt after only a few meters. He had lost the scent. Fear gripped at him but he forced it away, telling himself that he would do the logical thing and backtrack until he found the trail again.

He made his way to a tree he knew he had passed and sniffed, only to find nothing. The cold hand of dread raced towards him, squeezing him so tightly that he felt as though he couldn't breathe.

The scent, he was sure it had been there. He was sure that he hadn't just imagined it. But his eyes had suddenly failed him, could it be that his nose had also done the same? No, he told himself. No. It couldn't be that. He had smelt it, he knew his son's scent and his mind wouldn't be so cruel as to play a trick on him. Could it? He just couldn't be sure anymore.

He stared about himself helplessly, shivering as the snow began to fall faster, the wind beginning to shriek once more, lashing the devil with its ruthless whip. There was no point in continuing the search now, he sadly admitted to himself. There was no way he'd be able to find the scent in this weather.

For the first time since he had started following his nose, Sparda raised his head and tried to take stock of his surroundings. He truly seemed to him as if he was in the middle of nowhere. Everywhere he looked, there were trees. They would offer him very little shelter throughout the night. He frowned. Surely he wasn't meant to feel this cold? Yet he also felt weak at the same time. He had to find somewhere fast.

At that point, he saw a light somewhere to his left, among the trees. Unthinkingly, he headed towards it and was surprised when he came to a small building, the only one there. He threw all caution to the wind, his desperation forcing him to the door. He wasn't sure he would be able to find his way here again to continue his search if he left. This was the only option left to him.

He swallowed what nerves he had and knocked on the door. For a few minutes, all was silent but Sparda knew that someone was there; he had seen a face at the window from the corner of his eye.

He listened patiently as he heard the door unlock and heard bolts being pushed back. The door opened and he saw a pair of sapphire eyes staring up at him in disbelief. His eyes widened and his breath escaped him in a whoosh of air.

'E-Eva?'


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Time stood still as he stared deep into those achingly familiar eyes, those slightly parted lips and the oval shaped face. He stepped forward towards her and was surprised when she stepped back, unsure. 'Eva…' he breathed, hardly able to believe his eyes. He moved towards her, as if to embrace her but stopped, frowning. This woman had her face, but her eyes had none of that lovely fire. Other things began to appear, and soon Eva was no longer standing before him, just a horrendous imitator. He growled low in his throat before he could stop himself. Her scent was all wrong, and there was an energy coming from her, the same energy of a demon's.

'Dante?' she spoke then, and Sparda was almost sick with grief; she had sounded so much like his Eva, and yet so different. Had his son really looked so much like him? He lowered his head slightly. How had this woman known one of his little boys?

'No. I'm not Dante.'

'I'm not Eva.'

'I am Sparda, Dante's father.' He watched as the woman's eyes flickered with realization. Sparda could only guess at what she was thinking, how she was feeling. 'I'm sorry.'

'He went through a lot of shit because of you,' she said, her voice cold. 'They both did. And for a time, I was a part of it.' Her voice was bitter and close to tears. 'You should have stayed with Mundus. You shouldn't have turned your back. I would never have been created, and I would never have met your sons. I wouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling right now…and I know it's selfish, but what can I do? How else am I meant to feel?' She was struggling against herself, her voice wobbling dangerously. 'He was my first friend.'

Eva had sometimes become frustrated with her sons, particularly when she had first become a mother. She was filled with a blinding love for them but fear and worry would overtake her constantly. She'd turn to him then, her voice stretched, her eyes tear-filled. This woman looked and sounded just like her.

'He was my first friend,' she repeated, her voice turning high, 'and for a time, he was my only friend.' Sparda looked over his shoulder, back at the snow, back at the way he had come. Dante had led him here on purpose. His spirit was still in the world, unable to rest.

'I believe he still is your friend,' he said slowly. 'As unbelievable as this may sound, I caught his scent and I followed it. It led me to you.' She was silent, and her eyes stared up at him, filled with mistrust. At last, she spoke.

'You left them. She died. They had no one when they always should have had each other,' Sparda flinched slightly.

'None of what happened was intentional, Madam,' he said gravely, struggling to keep a sudden anger at bay. 'If you really think I just upped and left, then I am afraid that you are sorely mistaken, Madam.'

'Trish. My name is Trish,' she snapped. 'And that doesn't stop the fact that Dante is…' her voice petered out, only to be replaced by heart-broken sobs. Sparda could do nothing but stare transfixed, fascinated. Was this how Eva had behaved when he had failed to come home? Did she cry? Did she turn cold and like steel? At that thought, his heart unexpectedly went out towards Trish and yet, he remained where he was. He stood there awkwardly, knowing she needed comfort, yet not exactly sure how to help.

There had always been a way to comfort Eva, he had always known exactly what to do, whether it was to dry her tears himself, simply hold her and kiss the top of her head or talk things through. He couldn't help himself, but he had no desire to share these techniques on an impostor. Those were for Eva only, for his precious family. He stood there stiffly before lowering his eyes.

'I am sorry,' he said at last, aware of how weak an apology it was. Trish eventually managed to calm herself, wiping savagely at her tears. 'I am to blame for the death of my wife, and therefore the death of a brotherhood. I should have been more wary,' he murmured. Trish said nothing for a while but finally backed away from the door, allowing him entry. Grateful to be out of the cold he should never have been able to feel, he stepped inside.

The place was filled with the scent of his son and it momentarily brought tears to his eyes. He moved into the center of the room, his eyes roaming across the walls, taking in the various trophies his son had proudly displayed. The demons had been right to fear Dante, he thought as he caught sight of the gleaming blade of Alastor. It crackled as he passed it, forcing him to smile sadly.

'You served my son well until the very end, didn't you?' The sword shuddered in the glass casing before it grew still once more.

It was then that Sparda caught sight of something that made his heart swell with a renewed grief. He moved towards the huge oak desk and picked up the photo, staring once more at his wife. Trish seemed to have completely forgotten her earlier anger, just watching him with an exhausted pity.

'I didn't want to move any of his things. I wanted to keep everything just the way it was,' she said, her voice soft. 'I didn't want anyone to forget him. I wanted to remember. I wanted always to be reminded.' Sparda slowly turned his head to watch her.

'What is this place? What do they call it?'

'He called it "Devil May Cry". For a time, it was "Devil Never Cry" but…' she trailed off, smiling sadly. 'He changed it back. I was glad. I didn't want him to change anything. Nothing at all. I didn't want anything to ever change. And now this…' Her voice caught in her throat. Sparda tried to change the subject, failing dismally.

'How did you know…' He paused. 'No. Maybe I'd rather I didn't know.'

'We were always just friends. Nothing more, sometimes less. We became business partners. It's why I'm still here and carrying on. He would have wanted us to at least try and keep humanity safe.'

' "Us?" '

'His friends.' She didn't seem to want to elaborate. 'Sparda, I can only imagine how hard this is, me being here, Dante found it hard too, to live with a woman who had his mother's face. I'll leave here if you feel you're going to find it too hard to cope. If you say you caught Dante's scent and it led you here, then maybe this is where Dante feels you belong.'

He appreciated the sentiment and he could recognize the value of her thoughtfulness of the suggestion but he could not kick her out in good conscience.

'You have known Dante for far longer than I have. He would not want you to go. And if he was able to see past your looks, then I am sure I can do the same.' It felt so wrong talking about his son in the past when he should have been alive. 'I need your help. I need you to tell me all you know about how he died.'

'I'm the wrong person to ask. I was on a different mission and I wasn't with him. But there were two others who were. One was Mary, but she's been hospitalized due to an accident. She took on a devil that proved to be too strong for her. She barely made it out alive but she'll pull through.'

'And the other one?' Sparda pounced hopefully on the only lead he had. Trish looked towards him, her expression turning dark as she spoke one word.

'Nero.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

'Nero.'

'Nero?' Sparda echoed the unfamiliar name and frowned. 'Who is this man? What is he like? What does he do and how does he know my son?' Trish smiled and Sparda was relieved when he saw that the smile had reached her eyes for the first time since they had met.

'Please, Sparda,' she admonished lightly. 'One question at a time. You'll get to know soon enough. In fact, you might even be amused when you hear about Nero.'

But impatience had gotten the better of the legendary knight and he frowned. 'Please tell me what I want to know.'

'He looks a lot like your family actually. The resemblance is unbelievable. I just thought I should warn you considering…' Trish's spirit suddenly went out of her and she grew subdued once more. Sparda sighed softly, dismayed.

'You have intrigued me. Are you ready for my next question?' It was a feeble attempt at being playful but Trish smiled and responded to it all the same, her sapphire eyes brightening. 'What is Nero like?'

'He used to trash-talk but he grew up and became serious and very dedicated. But sometimes, very rarely, you can see a shadow of what he used to be like. A lot of things have changed since Dante…'

'What does he do now?' He didn't want her to dwell, not now. He didn't want to be dragged down with her when he was close to finding potentially important information.

'He's the head of this religious group called "The Order Of The Sword". It's main stronghold is set on the island of Fortuna.'

'Fortuna?'

'It's not far from here. About three hours away by plane. It feels like an entirely different world altogether, all European buildings. It's like being back in the medieval times in some aspects. Luckily the hygiene there is as good as anywhere else. I think you'd like Fortuna, though.'

'I would have thought it was as modern as this place.'

'No. They have moved on with the times, there is technology but the general atmosphere is…well…you'll see if you go there sometime.'

'And this Nero is the head of the Order, you said?'

'Well, that was incorrect, but the Head-Priest is technically the ruler but Nero, as the leader of the Holy Knights is more respected. He is the one in charge of defending the island from attack. It wasn't always that way though. He used to be nothing. He's come a long way. He's currently trying to persuade the Head-Priest to move on, to let Fortuna evolve as everywhere else has done but he's resisting because he wants to keep the emulation alive.'

'Why the medieval times? Why so long ago?' To Sparda's surprise, Trish smiled at the question and looked away, her eyes shining with mirth as she bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. The demon knight frowned, feeling left in the dark. 'What have I said? What is so amusing?'

'Well…this may come as a great shock to you but actually, its because of _you_.'

'_Me?_' Sparda's aquamarine eyes had widened. He sat down heavily in his son's chair and stared at Trish.

'Well, you see, they worship you as their God as well. They believe that if they stay in a world similar to the world you emerged into, they can achieve the purity you had when you saved humanity from extinction, sacrificed your title and betrayed your Lord. You saved them.'

'Yes, yes…' Sparda cut in bitterly. 'But I could not save my Eva, nor could I save my sons. They should never have fought each other the way they did.' Trish stared down at the floor at that point.

'I said a lot of things I shouldn't have,' she murmured at last. 'I wasn't being very fair. It wasn't your fault.'

'We would have been a family had I not been captured.'

'Eva…'

'…even without my Eva, at least the boys would have had one parent.' The two fell silent for a time until Trish tried to regain control of the conversation.

'Nero might be able to tell you more.'

'How does he know my son?' Sparda asked the question but she could see at once that he was too depressed to actually care about the answer. She frowned and reached out, laying her hand on top of his, squeezing it comfortingly.

'That's a question that Nero himself should answer. Anything he tells you would be better than any information I could give,' she said gently. She cursed inwardly however, when Sparda drew his hand away from hers, an expression of pain warping his majestic face. She should have known better, she told herself. She should have known. She got up abruptly.

'You want to go to Fortuna, don't you?'

'Mm…' His voice was hoarse as he battled against fresh greif.

'I'll book the tickets now.' And with that, Trish left the room, leaving Sparda quite alone to wrestle with his thoughts.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Sparda sat calmly, his eyes roving about his surroundings as he patiently waited to be called in. Trish had suggested that he wear some sort of disguise so then he didn't attract any attention until he had to. Trish had warned him that he would inevitably create a disturbance; he was deemed a God and Gods were meant to belong to another world, were never meant to be seen by the human eye. He had at first questioned the wisdom of Trish's choice when she had presented him with a plain black hooded cloak. He had at first thought it archaic but Trish had assured him it wouldn't be a problem while he was in Fortuna.

Trish had been right, he concluded as he sat there. No one at Fortuna had paid him any mind, most of the denizens wearing robes themselves that reached down to the floor. He was greatly amused. The people of Fortuna had gotten it all wrong. It was true that he had been there in the medieval times and he had quite happily protected humanity up until his capture, but as the world had progressed and evolved, he had changed with it. There was no real need for the residents of Fortuna to be so…out-dated.

He shifted slightly in his chair but then stilled when the grand doors opened. He watched in silence as a man stepped out. He drew in a breath quite by accident; the resemblance to his sons was uncanny. He had no doubt that this man was Nero, he could smell a lingering trace of his own kind about him, yet at the same time it was obvious that he aged faster than a demon, yet slower than a human. He could see it in the man's jaded eyes. Making sure to keep his face hidden, he slowly rose, trying to convey respect. Nero showed no emotion, merely sighing as though weary. He made no remark about Sparda's hooded face, getting right to the issue.

'What is it?'

'I need to speak with you, in private.' Something flickered immediately in Nero's eyes, and Sparda could sense the unspoken question on his lips. He checked himself and nodded, looking to his attendant.

'We are not to be disturbed,' he said, his voice curt. He looked again towards Sparda, discreetly trying to peer past the hood and into his face. 'Come with me.' Sparda followed him into the private chambers, blinking when he took note of the few articles that clashed with the medieval atmosphere of the office. A stereo sat on top of a desk, his sword had clearly been toyed with and a sleek laptop case sat to one side. Sparda discreetly noted his clothes as Nero moved to sit down; they were more fit for Trish's world, not this medieval realm.

Sparda had lowered his guard and he flinched when steadfast blue eyes stared into his own. They widened slightly in surprise but before he could see more, Sparda had turned his head to one side, shielding his face from view. Nero held back, confusion blunting his features.

'How can I help?' he said at last. Sparda cast another look around the office before he reluctantly turned his head towards Nero again.

'I don't quite know,' he admitted. 'I was told to come here.' Nero got up suddenly, definite bewilderment shining in his eyes. Without even asking for permission, he reached out and lowered the hood of Sparda's cloak, taking in a deep breath as he gazed into his face.

'Dante?' He sounded weak with shock before he hugged him tightly. 'I thought it was you! You can try and hide your voice all you want but damn it, you can't pull a fast one on me! Not any more.' _Did he really sound like me? Did he have my voice? _Sparda stared at Nero numbly as he continued to talk excitedly. 'How the hell did you make it?' he laughed shortly. 'Then again, you always got out of the craziest shit. We should have known better.' He paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he frowned. 'What's wrong? No trash-talking today?'

'I'm…not Dante…' Sparda muttered, his heart sinking. How many times would he have to say it? Nero frowned deeply before his eyes brightened.

'Amnesia,' he said at last. Sparda could only stare at him incredulously.

'No,' he whispered hoarsely. 'It's not amnesia.' He caught a brief glimpse of himself in one of the panes of glass. His hair was falling messily about his eyes. For a second, he could see his son staring back at him. Poor Trish. Poor Nero. Poor Dante. He felt sick. He swallowed hard and stepped away from nero at last.

'I'm not Dante,' he repeated, his voice sounding perhaps a little more firm. Nero stared at him without understanding. 'Look. I will show you exactly who I am.' He stepped into the brightest section of the room and turned, looking towards a wall. Nero frowned and followed his gaze, his eyes widening with horror when he recognized the shadow instantly.

'S-Sparda?' His voice was little more than a wheeze. His eyes swivelled onto the demon again, unable to believe. His knees went out from under him, sending him to the floor in prayer. 'My Lord, forgive me. I did not know.'

He was a god here. They worshipped a demon as if he were some holy creature. When Trish had told him, he had listened and had thought that she was merely exaggerating. But as he stared down at the man, he understood the enormity of what was at hand. At the same time, he couldn't help but be impressed; Nero hadn't screamed, nor had he run for help. Sparda knew he had to act before the initial shock wore away, before Nero could draw attention to them both. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before he spoke, his voice loud and commanding.

'Trish told me you were there when my son passed away. Tell me all you know. Tell me everything.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

A few seconds ticked by and Nero failed to react as he continued to kneel before his god. Sparda sighed softly, never in all of his experience had he come across something like this. He wished he knew what to do, how to react. At last, he spoke again.

'Nero,' he said, taking great care to keep his voice gentle and yet authorative. It struck him suddenly that he was speaking to this man in the same way he had once spoken to his children when they had been small boys. 'Nero, I understand that all of this must be a great shock for you. You have undergone a severe disappointment and you're meeting someone who has only been a legend-'

'Not just a legend,' Nero corrected dazedly, 'A god.' Sparda pursed his lips in displeasure but decided to let it slide for now.

'Okay, a god then,' he sighed. '_But_ I have come to you for help. Yes, that's correct,' he stressed, seeing the look of disbelief that had spread across Nero's face, 'I have come to you for help. Trish told me that you were there when my son died.' He stopped, seeing the pain that bruised the man's features.

'Trish…' he murmured. 'She was the one who was worst hit by the news. I tried to keep in touch with her afterwards but…# he shrugged helplessly. 'She couldn't look at me. Not without being reminded of Dante.'

Sparda saw he was getting nowhere. He sighed softly, knowing that he would have to ease him slowly into the flood of information he held.

'She pushed you away?' He was genuinely sympathetic, feeling for both of them. 'Did Trish love him?'

'As a sister. Perhaps even like a mother. She was trying to be the woman who had her face.' Nero flinched slightly. 'Sorry. That was…'

'I'll let it slide this once,' came the gruff reply. 'Eva may not be here anymore but I still love her. I won't tolerate any disrespect, no matter how slight.' It was all instinct, a demonic need to protect those he held dear, or valued. He had failed to save her, but he would at least protect her name and integrity.

'Sorry,' Nero managed again, his eyes trained on the floor. He shook his head. 'I don't believe it…' he whispered. 'You're here talking to me. _Me_. I'm just a knight. I don't deserve-'

'How did you know my son?' He was desperate to change the subject, desperate to avoid listening to how great and noble he was when he had nothing to be proud of. Nero smiled slightly, nostalgia shining in his eyes.

'Trish didn't tell you?'

'No. She left that to you.'

'Well…it's complicated and it's a long story. You sure you got the time for this?' Talking about his son had relaxed him, he could tell. The knight appeared to be lost in memory as he absent-mindedly got up from the floor and sat down in the chair behind the desk.

'I tried to design my office like his, you know,' he confided, his mind wandering. Sparda remained patient, minds tended to wander, failed to function with any regularity as it tried to process the shock of grief. 'It was stylish. He became something of a hero around here which isn't surprising considering…'

'You seem to be a hero too.'

'I didn't do much. No, in fact, I was the thing that started it all. You know, when Dante and I first met, he killed most of us. The priests, the worshippers, even those in simple prayer.' Sparda said nothing to this, his face a beautiful mask. Something betrayed him, because Nero shook his head. 'Don't look like _that_. He had no choice.' The knight paused, trying to collect his thoughts. Sparda waited as patiently as he could, trying not to skip to any judgements.

' "Return it to me, and I'll let you go." At first, when he said that, I thought he was talking to _me_. I had a big head. It wasn't me at all.' He shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I'm skipping things, getting ahead of myself.'

'Take your time,' Sparda encouraged. 'Just start at the beginning. You were saying that Dante attacked your people. Why?'

'Well, at first I thought it was because we were somehow desecrating your name, or butchering some ritual, doing it wrong. But it wasn't that. It was only much later when I found out the real reason. It was only then that I stopped hating him.

'At first, at least when I first entered the order, not a lot was going on. I was trained up as a warrior and we had a calm routine, revolving around our prayers. Then one day, that all stopped and we found that we were busy. The whole place was filled with activity. More time was dedicated to studying wizardry and sorcery among the priests instead of prayers. The warriors weren't told what was going on, we were just told to continue on as normal. And that's exactly what we did. And after a few months, we couldn't imagine our island of Fortuna as anything else but a bustling hive of motion.

'A few years passed and nothing had really changed. Then a festival arrived and my friend Kyrie was told to sing some sort of hymn. What we didn't know at the time was that the lyrics was actually an incantation disguised as a harmless song. Our main church was built upon an entrance to the Underworld and it would have opened had she completed the song. It was lucky that Dante stopped things when he did.

'At the same time, my arm was turning into that of a demon's. It was reacting to someone, though I didn't know it at the time. I was terrified, thought I'd been cursed. I wasn't that far from the truth either.'

'It sounds as though you were possessed,' Sparda observed.

'Exactly. I was.'

'By who?'

When Nero paused, Sparda already knew what the answer was going to be. He found himself whispering the name as Nero spoke.

'Vergil.' He shook his head sorrowfully. 'Vergil. His own brother. My own blood.' He sighed heavily. 'None of us ever thought that things were going to result in such bitterness.'

'I'm sorry.'

'No. It's not your place to apologize. I'm just disappointed that it was my own blood that brought about such…' Words failed him. He shook his head again, as if hoping to clear his mind. 'I'm sorry, Nero. Carry on.'

'When I thought Dante was talking to me, he was actually talking to his brother. He had…separated his essence into several different beings. One was my arm, the other was the head-priest who was ultimately killed when Dante and I joined the same side.'

'And yet, I can still sense something of a devil in you,' Sparda mused out loud. He immediately regretted it when Nero's face fell.

'I only found out from Dante that I too, was a hybrid. Vergil could only possess those who actively sought out power, such as our head-priest, and those who held great potential for power. Apparently, that was me. Vergil's power awakened _my_ power. It's nothing compared to what Dante was. It adds strength and speed, but I can't transform like how he could.'

'And what happened to your arm?' The question had escaped the devil without him realizing it. Nero hesitated before he slowly pulled up his sleeve, revealing a shrunken, blackened claw. It twitched slightly, struggling to move before it fell still, lifeless.

Sparda couldn't help but stare. Who else's life had he mistakenly ruined?

'Nero, it was Vergil, wasn't it? Vergil killed Dante, didn't he?'

The Holy Knight didn't need to answer. As soon as he averted his eyes and turned away, Sparda knew that he had been right. Truth dawned upon him.

And the world turned black before his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

For a while, the two could only sit there in an agonized silence, neither of them knowing what they could say to the other. Surprisingly, Sparda was the first to break the silence, but only after he had stared at Nero for a good few minutes.

' I can understand why Trish felt it too painful to keep in contact,' he said numbly, too lost in his own pain to really register what he was saying. Nero watched him before a sad smile slowly warped his features.

'Yeah. I know. I look like him.'

'The resemblance is uncanny.'

The two fell silent again, the feeble conversation dying as the two became lost in their own thoughts. Both tried to imagine how Dante would act in this situation and came up blank. Nero eventually looked up at the devil.

'What are you planning to do now?' Sparda didn't answer. Nero continued to watch him. 'You're going to find Vergil, aren't you?' he asked, his voice bleak. Sparda slowly nodded.

'Yes, I am. I have to. I…' He didn't know what he was going to do when he saw him. He bit his lip briefly. 'I have to talk to him. I have to…to reason with him…see why…what happened, what went wrong.' Nero raised an eyebrow in question but thought better than to press him. Sparda caught the expression and frowned.

'What is it?'

'I think Vergil is past reasoning, Sparda. He scorned the legacy you left behind whereas Dante embraced it. Or at least, he seemed to. I think he resented the mess you left behind but that faded away after time.'

'Mess? What mess?'

'Beowulf? Bolverk?'

'Ah…' _That _mess. He had had no way of knowing that these things would have caught up to his sons. He had known that Bolverk would have tried to fight and battle him but he had naively believed that it would have all ended with his capture.

'I wish I had been there,' he found himself saying. 'I wish I had been there to protect them. To be a father to them.' His companion was silent, reluctant to utter a word. He was caught off-guard when Sparda turned beseeching eyes onto him. 'Please,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I'll need your help. I need you to help me find him. It doesn't matter now how Dante died. The fact that _Vergil_ killed him is enough.'

But Dante had asked his father to avenge him. He couldn't. Not now. Not now he knew.

Nero stared quietly back at him before he sighed.

'If it comes down to a fight…'

'Don't worry. I won't involve you.' This seemed to be exactly the wrong thing to say. Nero stood up, his eyes narrowed, his jaw rigid.

'If I'm going to help you find Vergil, then I'm going to help in the fight too. Dante's your son, fine, that's all well and good, but he was my friend too. I'm not going to sit around and let you do all the work. I want in. Deal?'

'Fine…' Sparda muttered. 'But I'm hoping only to reason with him, to talk with him. I want to avoid a fight if at all possible.' To Sparda's surprise, Nero continued to watch him darkly.

'That's all well and good, Sparda. Avoid a fight if you can. But whether you want it or not, a fight is exactly what you're going to get.'


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It seemed to Sparda as if he had been in the mortal realm for a decade when in reality all that had passed were a couple of days. And in that space so much had happened already. He had met some demon that looked like his dead human wife and a man who looked more and more like his sons every time he looked at him. And then there was the biggest revelation of all, the one he could barely wrap his head around. Flesh had destroyed flesh. Blood had consumed blood. Twin had murdered twin.

Sparda sat back in the aeroplane seat, glad that Nero had insisted they take a "normal" flight rather than _literally_ fly back to the agency. The demon believed that had he had his own way, he would have met with some accident, perhaps tried to dive into the sea in the hopes he'd never surface.

Desperation engulfed him. Nervous energy fuelled him. He looked out of the window anxiously. He wanted to be off this plane. He wanted to leave, he wanted to find some answers to those most painful questions. But propriety held him to his seat as the plane carried them across the ocean.

Nero look at him sympathetically.

'Only an hour left,' he muttered. Sparda could have _died_. As though sensing the full extent of his misery, Nero handed him a magazine. 'Here. Read this. It might help.' It was a brave but ultimately weak attempt at avoiding the true issue at hand but Sparda didn't _want_ a magazine. He didn't _want_ any coffee or tea and he certainly wasn't in the mood for _lunch_ either.

What he wanted was his family. He was pining over the impossible. He wanted to go back in time, back to normality, the way his life should have been. His thoughts drifted onto his children, Vergil in particular. He'd always been such a _good_ child, never got in any trouble, never made much noise. He was quiet and dignified as his brother constantly made all sorts of messes inside the house and outside the house and drove his parents frantic.

Sparda wondered whether he had been a negligent father but his elder son had never seemed visibly upset. He had always been reserved even then, with a fierce type of scorn for all things unrefined. He had reminded him a lot of himself. He couldn't help but wonder whether _he'd_ been the cause of all of his children's problems. Maybe he should have been more attentive. Maybe Vergil had become quiet and still as a result of neglect. And Sparda had been too stupid to realize, merely putting it down to personality. It had all been his mistake and in parenting, there is no room for mistakes. He'd made several.

But he couldn't find it in himself to believe that it was entirely his fault. At the same time, a small selfish part of him wanted to believe that no one could be blamed, that Vergil's personality would not have changed if things had been different in their lives. Sparda wanted to comfort himself with tender memories, but every time he tried to recall, they would be tainted by horrific images of his sons battling each other, spilling each other's blood.

Nero shifted slightly in his seat before stealing a quick glance at him, still unable to truly believe that he was sitting on a plane beside a man who was meant to be a God. Sparda wished he would stop; people had been forced to swallow so many lies, had been made to believe in fairytales.

Sparda suspected that if anyone knew the real events, they would not have been so eager to adore and worship the ground he walked on. Still, he mused, there was a time and a place for everything and now was not it. He would set the records straight as soon as he could, as soon as he…

But he couldn't honestly believe that he'd ever be able to "sort out this mess". Dante had demanded vengeance and Sparda had blindly made a promise. But how could he betray his own blood?

He wondered vaguely, incoherently whether Vergil would be able to survive another blood betrayal.

'I feel…' he whispered. Nero pursed his lips before laying his undamaged hand on Sparda's.

'I know. I just don't understand how you can keep together under all this.' Sparda didn't reply, but slid his hand away from Nero's, painfully reminded of his wife.

The amount of times they had comforted each other. And she was gone, the only person who ever really understood him. He stared out of the window bleakly, staring at the land below. Humans constantly died, and those who were left behind simply got on with their own lives. He would have to do the same, even if he didn't know how.

'Sorry,' Nero broke into his thoughts, his face flushed, embarrassed.

'You have nothing to be sorry about. But yes, this is all happening. I'm actually here. I am real.' He smiled wryly when Nero lowered his eyes.

'It's hard to believe.'

'Sometimes, I find it hard to believe myself.'

The two shared a smile, one nervous, the other jaded. The seatbelt icon flashed and Sparda sighed as he automatically obeyed the call.

The flight was nearly at an end and he welcomed it and dreaded it for the same reasons.

He was one step closer to the truth.


End file.
